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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24110512">home is where the heart is</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps'>annejumps</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Baseball, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Protectiveness</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-03 01:02:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,685</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24110512</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/annejumps/pseuds/annejumps</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>For twenty years, shortstop Eddie Kaspbrak and catcher Richie Tozier have been an institution on the Red Sox. They're best friends, the Felix and Oscar of the team. They're inseparable, but at the same time, everyone knows they can barely stand each other. ...Right?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>142</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>home is where the heart is</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eddie Kaspbrak has seen Richie Tozier naked and in his bed more times than he can count.</p><p>He’s seen him naked in the locker room, along with everyone else on the Red Sox, and he’s seen him in his bed because when they’re on the road, Richie has a habit of wandering to his hotel room (or knocking on the door between their rooms, if they’re attached) at night and inviting himself in, like a slovenly, rude vampire. Inevitably, after a few hours of watching TV and bickering, this ends in him sprawling across Eddie’s bed (“Diagonally, Richie? Again? Really?”) and falling asleep. By the time he starts to snore, Eddie shakes him awake and budges him over as much as he can. It’s pretty much a routine, at this point. </p><p>Nobody else on the team thinks anything of the fact that Richie sometimes leaves his room in the mornings, Eddie’s sure, because the sports world means weird intimacy between players, and everyone understands that he and Richie are best friends. Which they are. They also seemingly can’t stand each other. They’re pretty famous for it, really. They’re known as the Felix and Oscar of the Red Sox.</p><p>Eddie was the top draft pick their year. Richie was in the Top Ten, but he already had a reputation, one that got him the nickname “Trashmouth.” He’s only reinforced that reputation in the twenty years since. Day one, Eddie and Richie were immediately repelled by each other, like opposing magnets: the Golden Boy, as Richie called him, the most promising shortstop the Sox had seen in a decade, and the loudmouthed, unkempt, opinionated catcher with a batting average of .296 and a tendency to get ejected. </p><p>They were at each other’s throats immediately. Richie hazed him relentlessly, just because he was slightly later to arrive than Richie was, like the Red Sox were his territory first. Eddie was almost driven to tears of frustration—never betrayed in person, of course, only when he was totally alone—by Richie’s pranks, towel-snappings, and constant jokes about fucking his mom. But Richie was friends with Mike, their top first baseman, Bill, their second baseman and more or less Eddie’s partner, and Stan, third base, so he was unavoidable. </p><p>Then, a few years into Eddie’s time on the team, a Yankees pitcher brushed him back a little too closely one too many times, finally knocking him squarely on the shoulder, and the benches cleared. Richie was the first one out of their dugout, and he was summarily ejected for clocking the pitcher squarely on the jaw.</p><p>“Just defending your honor, Eds,” Richie told him later, with a salute and a twinkle in his eye, the effect either ruined or enhanced by the fact that he was only wearing sliding shorts.</p><p>Something changed after that, but Eddie couldn’t pin down what it was. All he knew was that suddenly Richie was his friend, and by extension, so were Mike, Bill, and Stan. Of course, there was something different where Richie was concerned, and he couldn’t put his finger on that, either.</p><p>It was after that when Richie started coming to his room, saying he couldn’t sleep or asking if he’d seen a particular TV show that Richie thought he’d like (he almost never did). The first few times, Eddie expected him to leave at some point, but realized he never did on those nights, not until dawn. He’d commandeer the bed, wrap his arms around a pillow or two, make himself at home. Eddie would eventually find a portion of the bed to sleep on—he’s a good bit smaller than Richie, 5’9” to Richie’s 6’1”—and sometimes expected to wake up to find Richie having wrapped around him in their sleep, as if he were another pillow, but never has. Richie’s weirdly respectful of his space that way. He’s never sure if that disappoints him. </p><p>They’re friends now, but Richie still doesn’t let him catch a break. He still does things like spray shaving cream all over his locker, hide his jock straps, interrupt his locker room interviews with yelling in the background, even occasionally pinch his cheeks and call him “cutie” on camera, just because Richie dwarfs him. Half the time, reporters end up asking him about his friendship with “Trashmouth” Tozier. “He’s a real character, all right,” Eddie would say, or something like that. </p><p>What Eddie never whispers a word of or lets slip in any way is how he actually feels about Richie. Hell, he barely even acknowledges it to himself.</p><p>From the moment he’d seen him, Eddie had been attracted to him. He’d been wondering right around then if he were really, truly attracted to men despite everything his mother taught him; years of youth baseball seemed to support that, and also taught Eddie to keep those suspicions about himself as quiet as possible, but Richie cemented it. </p><p>At twenty, Richie had still been gangly, a little on the thin side, like he’d had a ton of growth spurts he still hadn’t caught up with, like his shoulders had broadened and his limbs had gotten longer and he hadn’t gotten used to them yet. His hair had already been messy then, a mop of soft-looking curls, and he’d already had a permanent five-o’clock shadow and his signature glasses. In the twenty years since, however, he’d filled out, grown into everything, packed on muscle weight as befitted a solid catcher, and grown more assured and confident in his body. From the start, though, at twenty, Eddie’d been attracted to him, and it’s only gotten worse since.</p><p>He’s pretty sure his attraction is not reciprocated. Richie has a litany of stories about cleat chasers and baseball Annies, although thankfully he’s been discreet enough, surprisingly, that Eddie has never seen the ladies in question with him. And again, baseball players have weird notions of boundaries; Eddie knows this. He’s learned over the years to not get caught admiring anyone’s naked form in the locker room, and he knows Richie’s just coming to his room because he gets bored alone and needs attention, and Eddie is always a reliable source. And it’s true—Eddie will not turn him down. He doesn’t turn him down now, hearing Richie knock on his door, his stage whisper of “Eds.” Richie walks in wearing socks, boxers, and a robe, and the robe is only because it’s fucking cold in Minnesota. </p><p>It’s been like this for a long time, now. Mike, Bill, Stan, and their newer friend Ben, center field, have long since retired, because they’re not quite as stupid. He and Richie are dinosaurs, old-timers, with kids on the team now the right age to be their sons. The kids don’t really get them, but they’re an institution.</p><p>“You okay?” Eddie asks. The Twins’ left fielder had plowed directly into Richie earlier that evening, knocking him over. Eddie had seen him having to take a moment, before nodding to the umpires and the coaches that he was okay to proceed. Eddie had noticed him favoring his left knee more and more lately, too. That collision couldn’t have helped. Eddie feels an uncomfortable tension in his chest, thinking about it.</p><p>Richie shrugs. “Nothing ibuprofen and an Epsom salt bath can’t fix,” he says, but Eddie’s got sharp eyes and he can see how carefully Richie sits on the bed. </p><p>Richie, because he’s got terrible taste, wants to watch dirtbike racing on ESPN, so he does, and Eddie lets him. He falls asleep still wrapped in his robe. Eddie does his best to shift him out of what has to be an uncomfortable sleeping position, one that will kill his neck when he wakes up, and finds an area of the bed to sleep on.</p><p>The next night, Richie’s standing when the Twins’ third baseman plows into him; he’s knocked down and stays there as the game stops. Coaches and medics congregate around him. Eddie puts his hands on his knees to keep himself from running to Richie; he’s probably fine. Even the Twins’ crowd has begrudging but respectful applause for ol’ Trashmouth as he’s escorted off the field, limping, weight supported by two coaches. Eddie’s distracted for the rest of the game, hoping they’ve got his knee properly iced (Eddie’s always had an interest in sports medicine) and got him on the good stuff, as long as Richie doesn’t become addicted to painkillers or anything. </p><p>He goes to find him as soon as the game’s over. There’s Richie in his slider shorts, with a knee brace packed with ice, looking subdued until he sees Eddie walking toward him. He lights up, and Eddie feels a pathetic little leap of his heart, seeing that. </p><p>“Hey, Eds,” Richie says, almost smiling.</p><p>“You okay?” Eddie asks, hands on his hips. “And don’t lie to me.”</p><p>“I’m fine!” Richie insists. And then everyone else is pouring in, the locker room is chaos once more and Eddie is displaced by the professionals surrounding Richie and tending to his war wounds.</p><p>He’s surprised when Richie comes to his room again that night. Eddie answers the door in boxer briefs, socks, and a long-sleeved baseball shirt, because it’s still cold in here and he refuses to make the air even dryer by turning the heater up—that’s how you get nosebleeds. </p><p>Richie’s still got a brace on over his left knee, and he’s in boxers and a t-shirt, feet bare. “Bare feet? In a hotel? Richie, don’t you dare get your feet in my bed,” Eddie warns, feeling strange in his stomach at how Richie walks slowly and carefully to the bed and sits down at the head of it, back against the headboard, with pillows behind his lumbar region. He looks a little drawn as he helps himself get his left leg onto the bed with both hands. The feeling in the pit of Eddie’s stomach distracts him from the fact that Richie’s bare feet are on his sheets. Richie definitely looks peaked.</p><p>“Rich. You okay?” Eddie asks, climbing on the bed next to him, kneeling, cupping his jaw with the idea of looking into his eyes to see if his pupils are dilated, like they’ve got him on morphine or Vicodin or God knows what, or maybe not enough of anything. He turns Richie’s face toward him, and Richie blinks, eyes widening for a moment behind his thick glasses. He licks his lips, and Eddie glances at them for just a split second. Richie’s stubble is scratchy on his palms.</p><p>“Yeah, I’m fine,” Richie says, a little husky. He seems startled to have Eddie’s hands on him, and Eddie drops them suddenly, but he doesn’t move away.</p><p>“You sure?” Eddie asks, folding his arms, feeling sternness in his voice trying to hide his rising panic. “We can call somebody, get you something stronger, get you back to your room—”</p><p>“I want to stay here,” Richie says. “I don’t need anything else.”</p><p>“What did they give you?” Eddie asks, arms still folded.</p><p>Richie shrugs. “Two ibuprofen.”</p><p>“Two ibuprofen?” Eddie scoffs, incredulous. “That’s bullshit.”</p><p>“I’m fine, Eds. Really, it’s fine.” Richie swallows. There’s something he’s not saying. And it must be big, for Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier to be hesitant to say it, and to him.</p><p>“What? What is it, Rich? Tell me.” Eddie puts some steel behind his voice, brooking no opposition. He watches Richie’s ears turn red.</p><p>“They, uh.” Richie swallows again, clears his throat, looks away from him. “They want me to be on the DL for a while. They say this’ll have to be my last season. I can probably make it through the rest of the season without too much more permanent damage, but surgery is not out of the question and one more blow like that and it’ll be over for me whether the season is or not. My knees are basically destroyed anyway.” He laughs softly, and the sound of it makes Eddie’s heart hurt. “Pretty much inevitable. For a catcher. I knew it was coming. So… last season.”</p><p>Eddie’s silent, and the room is too; Eddie doesn’t usually have the TV on if Richie’s not there. Richie… retiring. Leaving him. It feels like all he knows how to do is play baseball with Richie.</p><p>“Then this is my last season, too,” he finally says.</p><p>“Eddie,” Richie says softly. “Come on.”</p><p>“No, Rich, it has to be my last season too. I’m not playing without you.”</p><p>“Fuck. You can’t do that because of me, Eds. You can’t fucking end your career because of me.” Richie swallows again.</p><p>“No, it’s a good time for me. Go out on a high, right? Five Gold Gloves, lifetime batting average of .292. I’m forty, Richie, it’s my time anyway.”</p><p>Richie looks at him, skeptical, brow raised, but doesn’t say anything, and looks away. They both know Eddie could easily keep playing. If he wanted.</p><p>“Not without you,” Eddie tells him firmly, and finds himself reaching with one hand to cup his jaw again, to make Richie look at him again. Richie’s brow furrows briefly and his lips part, and Eddie… leans in to kiss him.</p><p>Richie’s lips against his are warm and soft. He inhales, and Eddie slides his tongue into his mouth; Richie gasps at that, a hand moving to Eddie’s side, like he’s stopping him. Eddie shifts back, mortified—fuck, he’s ruined everything because he couldn’t just control himself for one more season—but the look on Richie’s face and in his eyes is not one that says “stop,” and Eddie kisses him again, Richie letting him part his lips again. Eddie hasn’t done and doesn’t do a lot of kissing—when you’re a closeted baseball player, there aren’t a lot of options where kissing is appealing—but it’s like Richie was the only person he was ever actually meant to kiss.</p><p>Everything from twenty years is in that kiss. </p><p>“Fuck,” Richie whispers, staring at him when he draws back. He looks stunned. “Fuck,” he says, again, half to himself, then adds, “Shit, it wasn’t just me, thank God it wasn’t just me,” in a wrecked-sounding whisper that Eddie feels all through his solar plexus. He blinks, as everything he’d known to be true dissolves, as the past twenty years of his life rearrange themselves in his mind.</p><p>“No, Rich. It wasn’t just you,” Eddie tells him. </p><p>With a groan, he shifts to stretch out next to Richie—kneeling like that isn’t so great for his knees, either. He’s not sure how Richie has done it this long. He puts an arm over him, turning to face him, Richie shifting gingerly down the bed to lie down more and turning too, wrapping his arms around him. </p><p>“Ow, fuck,” Richie mutters as he moves his leg in what must be a less than desirable way, and Eddie feels a flutter of sympathy.</p><p>“Watch it, watch your knee. Careful,” Eddie says, refusing to relax properly until Richie is comfortably settled. </p><p>Once he is, Richie kisses his temple. “Guess I won’t be kneeling for you anytime soon, Eds, sorry to say,” he whispers, tightening his arms around him. “It’s a crying shame. I’ve got the pads and everything, and I’m an expert at being on my knees. You might even say it’s my job.” He sighs. “Fuck, Eddie. You have no idea how many times I thought about—”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up, Trashmouth.” Eddie groans, feeling himself blush to his hairline. If they go down this road, they’ll never get to sleep, and they have a game tomorrow, or at least Eddie does. Richie laughs knowingly. Eddie presses against him as much as he can, inhaling his shower-clean scent, the warmth of his skin, the faint but ever-present odor of Icy Hot, and feels almost high on it all. “Go to sleep. You need your rest.”</p><p>“Shit, yeah I do,” Richie agrees, stifling a yawn. “You always take such good care of me, Eds,” he adds, sounding immeasurably content in a way that makes Eddie smile as he closes his eyes, both of them wrapped up warm and tight and safe.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This idea took hold of me and I had to get it down!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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